Unsent Letter From a Sniper
by darkwhitewolf
Summary: A scrap of paper, crumpled up in the corner of a van...
1. Unsent Letter from a Sniper

Dear you,

No, hell with that—"dear" is the wrong word, totally wrong. You're not a "dear" anything. You're the sickness, you're what's wrong. And you don't start a letter with "Dear sickness"—well, I don't. You might, actually, you're just twisted and sick enough to do call an illness "dear," because after all, they're your brothers, aren't they? The hurts and the maladies, you see them all at family reunions, and if anyone or anything is dear to you, it'd be them. If you gave a rat's ass about anything, I bet it would be kin—but you don't. I know you don't. I know.

How do I know? Oh, I bet you're all amused right now, pressing your stupid thin little lips together in a stupid thin little smirk. Well, knock it off, because even if we've never had a proper conversation, I can tell—and don't be so snooty as to ask me how. I'm not a bleeding idiot, that's how, and though you'll probably never properly realize it, you're not so good at your job as you think you are. Sure, you sneak around, and you do your research, and you hide away with all your precious little gadgets, but that's all legwork; I'm using my eyes, observing, watching. You'd be surprised at what I see, what I remember—for example, that little mask you wear? Useless. It clings so precisely to your skin, bet you could take it off and I'd still recognize you right away in a crowd. You can't hide from me. You can't stop me from seeing it.

You probably don't even think there's anything to see, you superior wanker. But there's plenty—I've caught all those coy little glances, the way you move and hold yourself, the way you breathe when you've got me pinned—not a thing escapes me, especially not you. You couldn't ever escape me—that is, if I wanted to catch you. But I don't. I don't want to catch you, I don't want you—I hate you. I hate seeing you look at me like that, the way you think you can get away with it, that you think I'm too dull to even notice when it's so painfully obvious, the way your sickness is infectious, the way you look at me like I'm a piece of meat to be devoured and then forgotten—because, remember, I know how you are, how your capacity to care starts at zero and only goes lower. That thing your mouth does when you ogle me, there's no affection there, although I must admit when it runs simultaneously with the other thing you do with your eyes—

But that's not worth a tic, is it? You could be lying with your eyes to get me closer to the truth you grip between your teeth—and I know that's the truth, because as a lie, as a secret, I would do you no good. If you look at me with longing, it's out of some pathetic, sick desire, some physical urge, the need to jump my bones and then forget the next morning—but you've got your goddamn work cut out for you. I must admit, though, if you can get someone like me—straight-laced, professional, and a sucker for a good pair of tits—to want to get intimate, well, guess you're better at your job than I give you credit for. But I don't want intimacy; I'm a full grown fucking man and I don't want to be cuddled and sweet-talked by some pansy-ass traitorous spook—yeah, that's right, traitorous. I don't trust you, I can't, I couldn't trust you even if I wanted to.

And I'll admit that I do. Want to trust you, I mean. I hate it, I don't want to want to trust you, but I do. There, I said it. So what? Not like I can, and—fuck, I'm not going to. God, I hate you. You make me sick. Really. I've told you about the illness, how it's your family and pride and self and all you could be faithful to, but what I forgot to mention was how goddamn contagious it is. I know it's an outright malady, so don't try to convince me that it isn't, that you're not—I'm around my second score of years and my mind has always made sense to me, no matter what happened or who I met or what I did. But now everything's a mess, a jumble, and I have wild fantasies that don't make sense, and I'm haunted in my dreams; I even get a fever whenever you get too close. If I get any sicker I'm afraid I'd let you grasp and use and fuck and leave me, and I'm almost sick enough to want you to. Almost.

But I don't think I'll ever be sick enough to trust you. That's the problem with your little game—if you did really want me, that'd be betraying everything you're supposed to be, and to be faithful to your duties, you'd have to betray me. No matter which way you go, if we ever got close, it would give me a reason not to get close to you. If we were on the same side, maybe it'd be different, but you're a betrayer either way and to get involved with you would be stupid—and like I said, I'm not stupid.

I'm not stupid, so I'll stay away from you. I'm not stupid, so I won't send this letter. I'm not stupid, so I won't tell you how I feel. I won't give you the chance to slither in and make me ill. If I think that you're alluring, fascinating, desirable—that's just the symptoms talking, and I have to ignore them if I ever want to recover. And I do—I have to remind myself of that sometimes, but I want to be over this. I want to be healthy again, and I know you can't do that for me. No matter how desperately I wish that you could.

Love—No, Anything But That,

The Sniper.


	2. Note Found in a Camper Van

Fool. Idiot. Bête.

Ah, perhaps those are the wrong words with which to open a love letter—but since you seem so intent on spurning any attempts of love, I may as well speak my mind, non? You are infuriating. Impressive, yes, how much you see—and yet you miss the most important things. You caught me! But alas, it seems that once again I have eluded you.

An illness. You are frustration incarnate, chiding me for your fever while what you have given me is terminal, makes me sluggish, makes me opaque, makes me…a man of my profession is never weak. Still, you weaken me. My symptoms have not escaped your discerning gaze: the wandering eyes, the shortness of breath, and the hunger—yes, you diagnosed me correctly—the hunger for you. I cannot hide from you, you claim—very well, then. I shall no longer conceal my intentions concerning you, or at least, not those that you so soundly reasoned out. But be warned, cretin, I am at least a little better at my job than you seem to believe, and you a little worse at yours—there are things you missed; such as my capacity to care. But never mind that—the careless one is you; we shall move on.

I don't expect you to trust me. You are not so much of a half-wit as that, or at least, if you are, you've hidden it very well. But to deny my invitation before giving me a chance to extend it, oh, fou! You do not know what you are declining. It is true what you say, that I would have to betray my team or you, but it is obvious whom I would choose, if one simply reasons it out a moment. After all, you are entirely aware of my intentions, whereas my team remains happily ignorant. Are you following me, bushman?

Of course you are not. This did not occur to you, nor did it occur to you that I am perhaps not all I seem to your shaded eyes. It did not enter your mind that none of us, not even I, is immune to the ravages of the symptoms of affection. That denying something for which you ache is not necessarily a good thing. That you would miss a single feature in your simplistic, far-off analysis of me. You claim to not be stupid, but it is obvious that that is not true, for you are starving yourself of titillating experience on the grounds of imaginary principle.

So, convict, I pray that you never recover. You have been my soporific and my stumbling block, and instead of giving me assurance, finding out just how you feel has left me furious. So consider yourself warned, fils de pute: from this day forward you shall feel my wrath. You may sense eyes burning into you, but not until too late will you locate them. You may feel arms wrap around you, but no longer shall I be gentle with my handling of you; you will feel the iron clutch of my fingers around your beautiful, bobbing Adam's apple. You may hear my breath quicken, but always with a snarl before a gasp. And with each blade that sinks between your spineless vertebrae, with each shot that echoes through your puny brain, may you remember whom it is you scorn. Perhaps the metallic glint of my instruments of death will remind you that you might have had a warmer touch, administered with gentle hands and a breathless gaze. I want nothing more than to inflict on you a thousand little deaths, but there is more than one way to make a man writhe and scream.

I can only hope that one day your eagle eyes and professional skill will live up to the reputation you have built them, and that your lovely little brain will one day be able to wrap around the notion that I am not so shallow as you have decided—but come, try to wade, and I shall suck you under, never allowing you to surface again. I am just as ill as you, or worse; perhaps we both are chronic. Perhaps we are each other's antidotes. Or poisons.

Perhaps one day you will be brave enough to find out. Until that day, I am the demon at your heels.

Avec tout mon amour sincere,

Your favourite ghost.

P.S. You may be wondering how I procured your previous unsent emissary? Hm, well, you may also want to consider a lock for your camper door, to be employed while you slumber. Tu dors comme une ange malheureuse.


End file.
